


The Last of Her Kind

by Verelia



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, More relationships to be added later - Freeform, Slow Burn, are you ready for a very drawn out relationship between a traumatized woman and an amnesiac, bc it may get.... violent, because that's what you're getting, longfic, may change the rating if needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verelia/pseuds/Verelia
Summary: As far as she knows, Panne is alone in the world.  A single night left her with no friends, family, or place to call home--she is the sole survivor of the Taguel.  She spent years wandering, finding hostility at every turn, until a rumor led her to Ylisstol, where she helped to fend off an attempt on their Exalt's life.  Fyra, meanwhile, knows nothing of where she comes from, having awakened in a field with no memories and little more than the clothes on her back.  Fyra is quick to trust her new friends, but Panne has years of pain bogging down every pleasant moment.  But as the world itself is threatened, the two outsiders will find they have far more in common than they thought.Slow burn gay Awakening fic that will span the entire game.  Expect mostly canon compliance, with additional details / lore about the taguel and (gods willing) weekly updates.  Thank you for reading :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I hope you enjoy the first of many chapters here. It'll be a novelization of sorts, following Fyra and Panne and a few other characters throughout the course of Awakening. For the most part, I'll be following major plot details with some slight changes in details--the story should feel familiar, if a bit more serious in tone. Also gayer. ;) Thanks for reading! Expect updates weekly!

_ That doesn't smell half-bad. _

 

A surprisingly pleasant aroma filled the air as Fyra stirred a large pot over the cookfire.  She handled the ladle gingerly, as if it were some beast with a will of its own--a single miscalculation on the chef’s part would end in disaster.  At least, it would when  _ she  _ was the chef.  Fyra had learned the hard way that her mind for tactics did not extend to matters of the kitchen.

 

She burnt things that she’d once thought unburnable.  Her experimentation with magic had not helped matters, either--it turned out that lightning-fried fish was both inedible  _ and  _ foul-smelling.  Needless to say, it had taken a few lessons before Fyra could be trusted with feeding an army--or, in this case, a small portion of one.  

 

The usual cooks had received word too late that a taguel had joined their ranks.  According to Frederick, the potato soup they’d been cooking would make their newest ally sick to her stomach.  Such would have been a poor welcome to Chrom’s army--especially in this case. Because as far as Fyra was concerned, Panne alone had turned the tide of battle.  Only through her efforts had they been able to save the life of the exalt. 

 

Whispers of the shapeshifter had traveled through the ranks, but Fyra had fought beside Panne during the previous night’s battle.  She had watched her take the form of a great beast, and had followed closely behind as Panne carved a bloody, corpse-strewn path to the exalt.  She had seen nothing but fierce determination from Panne, nearly unstoppable as she made her way through the fortress, weathering blows as though the blades tearing at her flesh were mere toys, and tearing through anyone foolish enough to get in her way.

 

To call the battle memorable was an understatement.  But what had burned an ashen imprint in her mind was a memory of the fighting’s aftermath.  

 

Never had Fyra seen someone disrespect the exalt.  Even their enemies seemed to hold her in high regard.  Yet Panne had glared at Emmeryn, had had the gall to call the Exalt of Ylisse a “man-spawn.”  Her chin held high, her back straight, she met the exalt with a level gaze, as if the two were equals.  And though they had been allies in battle, when Panne turned to Fyra it was as if she faced an enemy.

 

“It’s precious little that your kind seem to understand.”  Panne’s few words to the tactician had dripped with venom, her crimson glare full of contempt.  

 

So imposing had her demeanor been that, rather than respond, Fyra found herself scrambling to think of how her weary troops would even begin to combat the shapeshifter.  She had begun theorizing how she might get Emmeryn out of harm’s way when Panne’s voice took on a drastically different tone.

 

For a few seconds, her shoulders had slumped.  Her red eyes closed, her face contorting as if she’d been struck.  

 

“It was man-spawn like you that invaded our warren and slaughtered my people.”

 

Those words had sent a chill down Fyra’s spine.  No longer did she have to wonder at what “the last taguel” meant.  And though she quickly recovered, a single moment of Panne’s wounded expression was enough for it to plague Fyra’s mind still. 

 

It had been clear, then, that her skills would not be needed.  Even if Panne did attack… at that moment, Fyra wasn’t sure she’d have the heart to retaliate.  She’d seen plenty of violence and hardship--such was the nature of war, after all. But to be “hunted?”  This was a new sort of ugliness, a new level of human depravity that she’d yet to encounter.

 

But she resigned herself to this knowledge.  Thrown into the middle of a war with no memories, she could hardly afford to be picky about what she knew of the world.  Considering her situation, maybe the worst things were the most important for her to know. 

 

The mere thought of her ignorance during their first meeting made Fyra grimace.  The second time would be different, or so she tried to convince herself, but it wasn’t as if her current position was much better.

 

She still didn’t truly know what or who the taguel were, or why humans would hunt them down.  She had no idea why Panne’s warren would owe Ylisse a debt. And what a debt it must have been, Fyra thought, after the way Panne had fought so selflessly for a woman she’d never even met.

 

Fyra knew plenty about Chrom’s other trusted allies.  She’d had formal introductions to each Shepherd, had learned their stories and quirks as she spent time alongside them.  Even the thief Gaius, who had joined them the same night as Panne, had made himself at home--despite his history, his laid-back personality made him a good fit with the Shepherds.  That left one woman who spoke to no one of her own volition and sought solitude as soon as the battle had ended. In the full day since her joining, she had not so much as graced the cooks with her presence.  In elusiveness, she was second only to Marth.

 

There was nothing wrong with privacy, of course.  But from the way Panne had spoken, it sounded like she had no choice in joining them.  At the very least, her disdain for humans had been made abundantly clear--so why fight alongside them?  Was this the only way to repay the debt she supposedly owed to Ylisse?

 

Fyra could ask no one but Panne for the answers.  And though she would not deny her own curiosity, a more pressing concern drove her to find them sooner rather than later.

 

No one enjoyed spending each day in grueling combat, with the burden of so many lives on the line.  But there were precious, if fleeting, moments of joy, and the bonds forged between allies were crucial to success.  If Panne truly did not wish to fight, and had no faith in her allies, Fyra wasn’t sure she’d last on the battlefield--even with her exceptional prowess as a warrior. 

 

Panne would need more than a common cause.  She would have to see the Ylisseans as genuine allies, who would protect and stand beside her when she was in danger.  And she would have to trust the tactician leading them most of all. 

 

This woman had clearly suffered something terrible, and Fyra could not ask her--would not order her--to fight and die for the same kind of people who had hunted her kin.  Considering Panne’s surprise when Emmeryn knew the taguel’s proper name, Fyra made the rather safe assumption that, like her, most humans lived in ignorance of Panne’s people.  Words were easy, fleeting, and she knew she’d have to do more than talk to earn Panne’s trust.

 

She supposed she might be able to ask Frederick or Chrom more about the taguel, but she hesitated to bother them with her questions more than was absolutely necessary.  Surely, she thought, there would be no better source than Panne herself. 

 

But as things stood between them now, Fyra was a long way off from Panne sharing such knowledge.

 

And so the tactician found herself before a cookfire, burning embers mirroring the glow of the setting sun.  As far as her strategies went, this one was simple: use food as a peace offering in hopes that Panne might be willing to forgive her blunders from the day before.  Fyra was far from certain about its effectiveness, but she could think of nothing better. And, she reasoned, a simpler plan meant a simpler execution. 

 

Of course, it all depended on whether or not her food was any good.  

 

Fyra tentatively brought a spoonful of stew to her lips, blowing gently to cool it off.  It smelled good, sure, and it didn’t  _ look _ terrible.  Somehow. Her hesitation was not exactly unfounded, but her soup was about as good as it was going to get.  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and…

 

The broth on her tongue was neither too light nor too heavy, with bits of carrots that had apparently, through some miracle of Naga, retained their flavor.  She stood there for a moment even after she’d swallowed it, mesmerized at the lack of a foul aftertaste. 

 

_ Gods, I actually  _ did  _ it. _

 

With a newfound spring in her step, she doled out the stew into two wooden bowls, filling each one nearly to the brim.  She put out the fire in a hurry, its embers still glowing as she set off toward the outskirts of camp.

 

As far as she recalled, the taguel’s tent had been hastily pitched a fair ways off from the rest.  It was as far as possible from the prying eyes of the rank and file soldiers who, according to the latest gossip, wanted to catch a glimpse of the “rabbit woman" for themselves.  From what Fyra had heard, even those who’d seen Panne in the battle were skeptical that she did, in fact, have a human form. 

 

With that in mind, she supposed the seclusion made sense.  Still, Chrom’s army thrived on camaraderie, and isolation like this would hardly facilitate trust or respect.  She resolved to confirm these reports with Panne herself--and, if these unsavory rumors proved true, to take it up with Chrom--as always, she had a plan.  

 

But her confidence waned considerably as she approached Panne’s tent.  

 

It would have been laughable, had she not been so nervous.  Here she stood, the tactician of the Ylissean army, the woman who’d triumphed time and again in the face of near certain defeat.  She’d envy anyone whose most pressing concern was awkwardness. 

 

Yet Fyra’s heart skipped a beat as the taguel’s tent came into view.  Approaching the slightly open flaps that served as the entrance, she inhaled deeply, preparing to speak—

 

“Keep your distance, man-spawn.”  An angry voice and an angrier woman emerged from the tent.

 

Fyra jumped back with a yelp, nearly spilling the bowls of stew in surprise.  “How did you know I was here?” 

 

“Your heartbeat,” Panne said, rolling her eyes.  “It is both fast and maddeningly loud.” 

 

“You can—oh.”  Fyra’s eyes were drawn to the long ears peeking out of Panne’s braids.   _ Of course.   _ That could be useful in battle, she thought, but… if she could hear a heartbeat, what  _ couldn’t  _ she hear?  A battlefield would be home to sounds far less pleasant and many times louder.  That seemed more like a burden than an asset.

 

“Did you come to stare at my ears?”  

 

That snapped Fyra out of her daze.  She dragged her eyes to Panne’s face.  “No, uh… I came here to bring you dinner.”  Fyra held out a bowl to her. “And I thought, maybe, we could talk…”  She trailed off, suddenly aware of how underwhelming her offer sounded.

 

Panne let out a strangled noise.  She stared with widened eyes, first at the food, then at Fyra, as if expecting some sort of trick.

 

“The rest of the army’s eating potatoes, but Frederick said taguel don’t eat potatoes, so… I hope you can eat carrots?”  Fyra cursed herself for her lack of foresight--what if these were no good either? “Gods, I should have checked with you first--it’s just, there wasn’t much time, and I didn’t want you to go hungry, so--”

 

“Carrots are fine.”  Fyra was startled out of her thoughts by Panne taking the bowl she’d offered and walking away with it.

 

She lifted the tent flap and turned to look expectantly at Fyra, who she found staring slack-jawed.

 

“You wished to share the meal with me, yes?”

 

Fyra nodded earnestly, unable to help the smile that tugged at her lips as she followed Panne into her tent.  


	2. Chapter 2

Fyra and Panne sat cross-legged, facing each other on a worn carpet, faded in color and so thin that they may as well have sat on the ground.  Both bowls of carrot stew sat nearly empty, much to Fyra’s delight, but they had been eating in silence for a few minutes now--though it felt more like hours had passed.  She supposed she could conjure some excuse to leave--some sort of tactician business most grave--but she found herself reluctant to do so. She came here to talk, after all.  As things stood, though, she hadn’t the slightest idea where to start.

 

“You are squirming.”

 

“Oh!” Fyra exclaimed a bit too loudly, her cheeks reddening.  “I…” 

 

If she wasn’t squirming before, she certainly was now.  “I wasn’t quite sure what to say,” Fyra finally managed, her voice quiet.

 

“Then why say anything at all?”  Fyra blinked in surprise, unsure she’d heard correctly.  Perhaps this was her cue to leave. But something about Panne’s exasperated expression had frozen her in place.

 

“I have not met a single man-spawn that could endure silence with grace.”  Panne made no effort to hide the venom in her voice. “I suppose it is no surprise that your kind are so uncomfortable with peace,” she spat, punctuating her last word with a glare.

 

Fyra thought to last night’s battle; by all rights, those words, that glare, should have terrified her.  Yet, once again, the human found her heart heavy with sorrow instead.

 

“So… do the taguel find silence peaceful, then, rather than uncomfortable?”  The words had spilled out of Fyra’s mouth before she could think better of it.  She opened her mouth to apologize--once again, her curiosity had gotten the better of her--but stopped short at the sight of red eyes widened in shock.

 

Panne recovered quickly, her brow furrowing, a frown on her face once more.

 

"Yes,” she replied slowly, narrowing her gaze as if searching Fyra for answers of her own.  “A lull in conversation gives one time to collect one’s thoughts. We did not fill silence simply for the sake of it, as…”  

 

She sighed.

 

“...as your kind often does.”

 

Fyra took a moment to pick at her food, mulling over her words.

 

“I think the taguel have the right idea.  And better conversations, I’m sure.” 

 

“Indeed.”  Panne flashed a smile like lightning, brilliant for a moment but gone in the blink of an eye.  A fleeting sight, and one that Fyra would surely remember. 

 

She tried to clear her mind, ignoring all the preamble that she’d thought would be necessary.  Panne didn’t mince words; why should Fyra?

 

“I… wanted to apologize.”

 

She could not blame Panne for her look of surprise.  

 

“My words were poorly chosen when we first spoke,” she began, undaunted by Panne’s unchanging expression.  “I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier. I, uh…” Fyra looked down, studying the bits of food left in her bowl, biting her lip in contemplation.  “There’s a lot that I still don’t know about the world.”

 

“So it would seem.”  Panne’s tone was a bit kinder than before, so despite the heat rising to her cheeks, Fyra raised her head to meet Panne’s gaze once again.  She tried her best to hide her surprise as she continued.

 

“I knew nothing of the taguel before I met you.  Frederick and Chrom filled me in a bit more, but I want you to know I’m going to do my best to learn--not that you have to teach me,” she frantically added.  “It’s just not right for me to know so little, when you’ve already done so much.” She ventured a smile. “I’m not sure we would’ve made it last night if you weren’t there.”

 

“As I said before, protecting the exalt is my duty as a taguel,” she replied matter-of-factly.  “You need not repay me for fulfilling it.” 

 

“It isn’t about repaying you,” Fyra began slowly.  “I can’t very well befriend every foot soldier in the army, but I try to get to know Chrom’s inner circle as much as I can.  One of our allies advised us to trust you, and I do. But I… I want you to be able to trust me, too.”

 

Unsure of what else to say, she picked up her bowl and sipped the last of her stew.  Once every drop was gone, she put it down and saw Panne staring at her, brow furrowed.

 

“Never before has a… human placed such value in my trust.”

 

“You mean… not a single person outside your warren ever tried to be friends with you?  That’s…” Fyra shook her head in bewilderment.

 

“Most man-spawn that approach me have ulterior motives.  The soldiers in this camp are testament enough to that. Some have taken to wandering around outside my tent--several are dared by their fellows.  Others come for curiosity’s sake, I think. Still, the fact remains that not a single one has come to me directly. They approach like hunters tracking game,” she chuckled softly, despite Fyra’s horrified expression.  “Or so they think. I hear their footsteps long before they catch sight of my tent. As any taguel warrior would.”

 

“You… you don’t think they’d try to hurt you, right?”  

 

Fyra’s voice was small, shaky, and she had to blink a few times to be sure that Panne was, in fact, smirking.

 

“I would very much like to see them try.”  At Fyra’s grimace, Panne’s smile only grew wider.  “If one was close enough to harm me, the nimblest rogue could not escape my hearing--even if I were sleeping.  So no; I do not trust these man-spawn,” she continued, her pleased expression turned solemn. “But I do not think they seek to harm me.”  

 

Fyra breathed a sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing.  “That’s what matters most. But I’d rather they didn’t bother you at all.” 

 

“As would I,” Panne said with a frustrated sigh.  “They are curious, and I would gladly answer their questions, should their desire for knowledge be genuine.  But, as things are, they cannot fathom approaching me as an equal… as you have.”

 

“I… I’m glad I did.”  Fyra couldn’t help but imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t gone to Panne.  Far from the rest of camp, utterly alone, constantly hounded by people who saw her as little more than a curiosity?  Fyra shuddered at the thought--how did she sleep last night? Perhaps she didn’t. 

 

One thing was certain: she would not let it continue.  “I’ll talk to Chrom about their behavior--you deserve better than to be disturbed like this.”  

 

“Your kind seem to disagree on that subject,” Panne said dryly.  “Words alone will bring precious little change.”

 

“Then we’ll use more than words.”  Fyra spoke with a hard edge to her tone.  “Force, if we have to. The people of this army will listen to Chrom--and the exalt.  I don’t think Emmeryn will be pleased when she hears what’s going on, either.” She didn’t think it would come to that--she hadn’t heard anything about punishments more severe than latrine duty.  But she also knew Chrom couldn’t possibly accept this.

 

Mention of the exalt seemed to give Panne pause.  “I appreciate your effort, but… past experience has taught me not to hope.”

 

Fyra tried not to think of what awful things had led Panne to such a point.  “Then… I’ll do my best to make this time different.” Her voice was quiet, but determined.  She picked up the empty bowls and stood with a newfound resolve. “Chrom’s going to hear about this right away.  I want this settled before we march.”

 

Panne looked up at her dubiously, one eyebrow raised.  “You intend to change the army’s attitudes in a single night?”

 

“Well… I can promise you that the next time we make camp, no one’s going to be lurking around your tent.  And anyone bothering you during the march is going to have an earful from yours truly.” She spared a glance at the bowls in her arms.  “And, hopefully, you won’t have to eat my awful cooking again. From now on, whoever’s on cooking duty will have to make something you can eat, too.  Really,” Fyra continued, looking away, “sorry if the stew was bad. This is just about all I can cook right now.”

 

“What do you mean?  The food was delicious--the best I’ve had in a long time.”

 

Fyra’s mouth hung open of its own accord.  Panne didn’t  _ seem _ to be joking, but still she expected a punchline, some kind of resolution to this impossible praise.  A silent moment passed between them, yet no contradiction came.

 

“I… are you serious?  You must’ve been eating some pretty bad--”

 

“Do I appear to be joking?” Panne asked, her expression severe as she stood up.  Fyra shook her head, now craning her neck a bit to meet taller woman’s gaze. No, she decided, she couldn’t really imagine Panne joking.  “Taguel never joke about food.”

 

They stared at each other once again.  

 

“If you’re really sure, I’d be happy to make it again,” Fyra ventured, trying to quash the flicker of hope that she felt--everything about today had gone better than she was expecting, but anything in the future was up to Panne and Panne alone.  Fyra had no desire to add to her disturbances. “Just let me know.” 

 

Panne stared for a moment, her brow furrowed, narrowed red eyes regarding Fyra once more.

 

“I will.”  Panne’s intense expression shifted, leaving the faint suggestion of a smile in its wake.  “Thank you.”

 

From anyone else, those two words would have been inconsequential.  But Panne was not one to waste her time or breath with hollow niceties.

 

“You're welcome,” Fyra replied with a grin, happy to have earned Panne’s gratitude, if not her trust.  “Though I think I should be thanking you--I've learned a lot today. I… hope we can do this again.”

 

“As do I,” Panne said with a simple nod of acknowledgement.  

 

That was as good a cue to leave as any, so Fyra nodded in return and made her way toward the tent flaps, balancing the bowls with one arm and moving the heavy fabric aside with the other.  

 

She had not yet walked a dozen paces before quiet footsteps brought her to a halt.

 

“Fyra.”

 

She spun around at the sound of her name--the first time she’d heard it in Panne’s voice.  It was dusk now, with the sun having already plunged far below the horizon, and the moon just beginning to emerge past the treetops in the distance.  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Fyra could make out Panne’s features enough to see that those red eyes did not meet her own.

 

“Honestly, I may not be the best judge of taste.  Human and taguel are known to differ in that regard.”  

 

Fyra’s shoulders slumped a bit.  “It’s fine,” she offered with a sheepish smile.  “I’ll keep at it until I get it right. You'll be the first to know!” she assured with cheeriness she wished she felt.

 

“No, that's not it.  I enjoyed your meal for its taste, yes, but more than that…”  Panne paused, wrinkling her nose in apparent distaste. “I may be a poor judge for the reasons I mentioned, however…” 

 

Panne sighed in frustration and finally turned her gaze to Fyra with an exasperated look.

 

“I imagine that even the worst of meals might be edible in the right company.”  She looked away again, staring into nothingness far past Fyra’s shocked expression.  “It has been a very long time since I simply shared a meal with someone,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.  After a moment, she seemed to compose herself, addressing Fyra directly once more. “You have my thanks.” 

 

Panne began to turn away, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed.

 

“Wait, I…”

 

_ Don’t just fill the silence.  Think! _

 

“The Shepherds welcomed me with open arms, but… they already knew each other.  I always eat with them, in huge groups, and Chrom is never alone, so… sharing a meal I made with you, just the two of us, was something I’ve never really done before.  Or, at least, something I don’t remember ever doing.” Panne turned her head to glance at Fyra out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t have a lot of memories, so new ones are always dear to me.  This is definitely something I don’t want to forget. So… you have my thanks, too.”

 

Fyra’s heart was pounding--and Panne would know, she realized with a start--but her rather vulnerable admission was met with silence.

 

“I understand you might not want to venture into the mess tent just yet,” she tried.  “But would you mind if I brought you breakfast? We march at dawn, so… you should probably eat something.”  

 

“I would like that very much.”  Panne turned toward Fyra, her expression unreadable in the waning dimness.  “So long as you bring something for yourself as well.”

 

“Alright.”  Fyra tried to mask her surprise and excitement, with minimal success.  “I'll see you in the morning, then!”

 

“I look forward to it,” said Panne as she walked back into her tent, halting just as she lifted the flaps.  “And Fyra--if you truly wish to learn more of the taguel, you need only to ask.”

 

She did not wait for a response before entering her tent once more.  

 

Fyra was left alone with only the moon for company, though she had no doubt her quiet “thank you" would reach the one she meant it for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, slowly, they're coming to understand each other... Thank you for continuing to read! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of two chapters for this weekend, since this one's pretty short! I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

“She… actually ate dinner with you?”

 

“Not just any dinner.  She ate my  _ cooking _ ,” Fyra assured him, unable to contain her laughter at Chrom’s expression of utter shock.  They’d both needed a break like this, but as always, it was fleeting. Time would not slow its course even for a moment.  She exhaled slowly, mulling over her next words. “That’s… not what I came here to talk about, though.” 

 

Fyra was sorry to change the subject.  Chrom had actually been smiling at her story, somewhere between bewilderment and outright laughter.  It didn’t make the dark circles under his eyes disappear, or straighten his exhausted slouch, but it was the first time since the assassination attempt that Fyra had seen him look genuinely happy.  Chrom was hardly a master of politics, but he knew how to fake a smile, and Fyra knew how to tell the difference. 

 

She looked away from him, studying the plush, embroidered rug under her feet.  

 

“Oh, come on, Fyra.  Whatever’s bothering you, it’s the least I can do to help.”

 

“It’s about Panne,” she began slowly.  “Some of the rank-and-file haven’t exactly been… welcoming.”  She looked back at Chrom, the worry on his face mirroring her own.  “They’re treating her like a curiosity. Even though her tent’s on the edge of camp, they’re still bothering her.”  

 

“Frederick had mentioned something to that effect, but I had hoped that...”  He trailed off with a sigh, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry, Fyra. I should have dealt with this earlier.  As soon as we’re done here, I’ll have a word with the officers myself.”

 

“Thank you, Chrom.  I… I’m hoping that Panne comes to trust us. She really considers it her duty to protect Emmeryn, but…”  Fyra trailed off, her voice going quiet. “I’m not sure how long she can keep that up if this is how she’s treated.”  

 

“Point taken,” he answered gravely, his eyes downcast.  “She fit in well enough on the battlefield, but… I guess we’ll have to work a bit harder to make her feel like a Shepherd for true, huh?”

 

“Chasing off these gawkers will be a good start.  I’m having breakfast with her tomorrow, and she’s set to march with the vanguard, so I’ll try to keep an eye on her and make sure things go smoothly.”

 

The tense, joyless smile was back.

 

“Don’t worry.  You’ve done enough, Fyra; I can take care of this one.”  

 

“I know you  _ can _ , but that doesn’t mean you should.  Not all by yourself, anyway. You’re busy, and for good reason.”  Fyra crossed her arms, mirroring Chrom’s stance in a lighthearted challenge of his insistence.  “So I’ll still be checking up on her, at least.”

 

“Well, far be it from me to challenge my tactician,” he conceded, raising his hands in mock defeat.  His eyes shone with real amusement, and no small amount of relief. “In all seriousness… thank you, Fyra.  I might be able to scrape by on my own, but I’m really glad I don’t have to. The same goes for any of the Shepherds, but…” 

 

“Yeah, I know.”  Fyra cut him off with a smirk.  “It’s nice to take off the brave face sometimes, huh?  You’re very welcome, Chrom, but I’m only returning the favor.”

 

“Glad I could be of help, my friend.”  He turned around, fetching a cloak that had been haphazardly thrown over a chair.  “I think it’s time to go and sort this out.”

 

They said their goodbyes, and she left his tent with little ceremony, nodding to the guards on her way out.  His officers would listen to him, she knew. As the long-standing leader of the Shepherds, his word held far more weight than hers.  Tactician or not, she was still a newcomer, and her questionable origins did little to foster trust with those whom she didn’t personally know.  By that logic, he was just about the only person who could take care of this particular issue. Even if she tried on her own, she doubted they would care until she got Chrom involved.

 

Despite all of this, she wracked her brain for what else she could do.  Chrom led the Shepherds, and Fyra’s expertise was often limited to the minutia of the battlefield, but--forget their duties--as his  _ friend, _ she could hardly sit by while he suffered like this.  By his shaken reaction, this was the first time such an organized attempt was made on Emmeryn’s life.  Yet as tensions rose higher each day, Fyra was fairly sure it wouldn't be the last. Whoever was behind the attack in Ylisstol was surely not alone.  

 

These were the thoughts that kept her awake for hours after she’d settled into her bedroll that night.  Fyra tossed and turned, imagination running rampant as she watched the exalt’s blood spill over and over again in her mind’s eye.  Poison in her goblet, a knife in her back, an ambush on the road. 

 

Ylisse--and indeed the world--would suffer greatly in her absence.  Yet Fyra's mind did not linger on the prospect of international crises, the scale of which she could hardly imagine.  Instead, she thought of Chrom. 

 

The prince content to call himself a shepherd, whose name Fyra remembered even before her own.  Who trusted her when he had every right to be suspicious. She woke with nothing but the clothes on her back, and, as she found out later, a decent grasp of battle tactics.  Yet Chrom had given her so much more: a purpose in her new position, a home with the Shepherds, and a dear friend in him.

 

She knew all too well the feeling of absence, the maddening void of reaching toward memories beyond her grasp.  But Fyra knew nothing of loss. She began with nothing, and could hardly mourn what she did not know. 

 

Fyra knew nothing of loss… but she saw what it did to others.  The loss of the former Exalt had made Emmeryn wise beyond her years, robbed of her childhood by an imposed sense of duty.  Panne witnessed her people hunted to near extinction, and it clearly left deep scars in its wake, forcing her into miserable solitude for so many years afterward.  

 

To lose Emmeryn… Fyra wasn’t sure what that would do to Chrom--or to Lissa.  

 

With that thought, Fyra rose from her bedroll and brought her lantern to the makeshift desk a few paces away.  She felt around for a tome in her pockets and, with a few whispered words, the lantern’s flame sprang to life once more.  

 

It was late, and she was rising even earlier than usual tomorrow, but surely checking the formation for tomorrow wouldn’t hurt.

 

Hours later, as her flame died and the sky lightened, Fyra made a promise: 

 

She would never let Chrom know the pain of losing Emmeryn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. We all know how that one ends LOL cue the angst (and the chrobin friendship!)


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn had just begun to unfurl in soft pink tendrils, climbing the horizon with all the urgency of creeping vines on the wall of a long-abandoned home.  The exalt’s escort--the Shepherds, and Emmeryn’s personal guard of pegasus knights--would not truly begin their march preparations for another few hours.  Yet the army’s tactician was very much awake. 

 

After three hours of sleep, at the very most, Fyra should have been shuffling around like one of the Risen.  For once, however, her excitement far outweighed her fatigue. She made her way toward the edge of camp at a brisk pace, mindful not to disturb the pouch at her waist.  Inside of it sat half a loaf of bread, still warm, with a few strips of salted meat, as well as several pieces of dried fruit. She’d gotten a few strange looks as she’d stuffed two portions of food into a bag and left the mess tent in a hurry, but her mind had been far too busy to dwell on it.

 

If taguel and humans really had such different tastes, Fyra wasn’t sure Panne would even like the food she’d picked--but marching on an empty stomach was out of the question.  At the very least, it was warm, hearty, and free of potatoes.

 

She hummed as she approached her destination, greeting the few soldiers she passed on her way.  The din of waking soldiers grew ever quieter, replaced by the chirping of birds and whisper of wind in the trees.  Fyra found herself gazing up at the treetops, looking anywhere but where she was going.

 

“Fyra.”

 

She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at what was ahead of her.

 

“Panne!  Good morning,” she replied cheerfully, pleased that her plan had worked.  If Panne could hear footsteps outside her tent, she was sure to notice humming.  Maybe it wasn’t the most pleasant of sounds--Fyra was no singer, as far as she recalled--but it served well enough to warn Panne of her presence.

 

“So you say.  Yet you look to have had the opposite.”

 

“I do?”  Fyra had dressed in a rush this morning, true.  She’d paid little mind to the finer details of her appearance, far more concerned with getting breakfast to Panne while it still held some semblance of warmth.  She looked down at her coat, trying to see if something was askew, but found nothing out of place before turning back to Panne with a shrug. “I feel fine. Something on my face?”

 

“I suppose so.  There are dark rings under your eyes.”  Panne crossed her arms, shooting Fyra a severe look.  “I hope you did not cut short your sleep for my sake.”

 

“Oh, that?  It’s nothing.”  Fyra dismissed her words with another smile as she started walking again.  “It’s always hard to sleep the night before a march--for me, anyway. I have to make sure everything’s perfect.”  She grabbed the pouch at her waist and handed it to Panne. “Here, get some while it’s hot. Or, uh, warm.”

 

Panne followed after a moment, poking around the bag of food.  She pulled out the half loaf of bread and tore off a fist-sized chunk of it in a single bite.  Though it proved difficult, Fyra did her best to look at the path ahead instead of the spectacle next to her.  Not even Stahl ate like that.

 

“We are fortunate to have such a dedicated tactician.  However,” Panne continued, cutting off Fyra’s attempt to thank her for the compliment, “your diligence will mean little if you fall to exhaustion.”  

 

“I think the Plegians are more dangerous than a few hours of lost sleep.”  Panne had no answer for her as they entered the tent. “They’re a bit better armed,” she added with a laugh.

 

Once inside, Panne stopped and turned to her, arms folded, with a decidedly unamused glare.  “When your reactions are delayed… when you are too tired to pay proper attention… these things can kill as well as any blade.”  She spoke with the sort of quiet intensity that only harrowing experience could provide. 

 

“Well, I…”  Stern as they were, Fyra could not deny the truth in Panne’s words.  “I know it isn’t good, staying up like that. I just… ” 

 

They were marching in an hour.  She didn’t want to spend any more time considering how her carefully constructed plans might go awry.

 

“It’s hard not to worry.”  She settled on those words at last, eyes trained on the ground.  

 

“I did not mean to… ugh.”  She looked up to find Panne sighing, a grimace on her face.  “It is worry that moves me, as well.” With that, she turned away, digging through a satchel for a moment before producing a couple of mismatched cups.  “The night before a battle, taguel warriors would drink calming tea to clear our minds and give us rest. If I can find the herbs for it, I will brew you some.”

 

“Oh, that’s… that sounds lovely, Panne.  Thank you.”

 

“Mm,” Panne grunted in reply.  “For the moment, we will have to make do with this, however.”  She picked up a kettle that Fyra hadn’t noticed, and filled both of the cups practically to the brim.  The tea’s aroma was strong, sweet, and entirely unfamiliar to Fyra. She thanked Panne as she took the cup, savoring its warmth in the morning chill.  

 

With tea in hand, they both sat down.  After a few sips, Fyra still wasn’t sure what she was drinking, but she liked it well enough.  The heat, the bitterness, felt grounding, as if rooting her to the present. 

 

Fyra carefully emptied out her stash of food.  In the absence of a table, she used the bag as a makeshift plate for its contents.  For a while, there was little sound but breaking bread and biting fruit. Panne didn’t seem particularly interested in the meat, so Fyra helped herself to it.  With morning light flooding in behind them, she took the opportunity to look around.

 

Once again, they sat on the thin rug, which she now noticed had intricate designs in its stitching.  Time and wear had faded it, certainly, but she could still discern the once-vibrant colors. Most of Panne’s belongings had been packed already, or so it seemed, but her bedroll remained.  On top of it lay a worn pink blanket, light-colored embroidery featuring along its edges. Fyra wondered if someone in Panne’s warren had given it to her. She didn’t think Panne would be the type to sew.  Or maybe it was common for taguel warriors to know such things? With Lissa in mind, she supposed sewing and violence might not be so different.

 

But thought of Panne’s warren had given Fyra another idea.

 

“So… yesterday you said I could ask about the taguel…” 

 

A nearly imperceptible tilt of the head was Panne’s only acknowledgement.  It did little to help Fyra’s hesitance, but she pressed on.

 

“Well, I know your ears give you great hearing… but what about other shapeshifters?  Do they all turn into… err… rabbits?” The word didn’t seem to fit Panne’s shifted form.  Rabbits were small, cute, easily-frightened beasts of prey, in Fyra’s experience. In the midst of battle, Panne was none of those things.

 

“No.  There were others, far from here,” Panne said with a wistful look.  “Tribes of cat-wearers and bird-wearers.”

 

Fyra tried to imagine what such people might look like.  How did the birds even fight? Talons? They’d be good for reconnaissance, she supposed.  But archers or a strong wind spell would surely be their undoing. Perhaps the cats fought like Panne… but if Panne was so large as a rabbit, how big were the cats?

 

“I would have loved to see that,” she finally said, trying to ignore her disorganized musings.  “I wonder how they fought! Or… were they even warriors? Did you ever meet them?”

 

A ghost of a smile graced Panne’s features at Fyra’s childlike curiosity.  

 

“They were most certainly warriors.  And… long ago, yes.” That rare smile was gone in an instant, however.  “How they fare now, I do not know. Perhaps they shared the same bloody fate as my people…”  

 

“Oh, I…”  Fyra’s heart sank.  “I didn’t mean to…” 

 

“I am sorry.”  Panne looked away for a moment, scars of the past plain on her face.  “There is no call for you to share in my gloom. So, another question?”

 

She looked back at Fyra, suddenly composed.  There was a hardened look in her eye, her quick recovery a saddening testament to just how often she had to bury her pain.

 

Fyra was quiet for a moment, pondering how to phrase her question gently.  

 

“Would you prefer not to talk about your people?”

 

“I thought you wished to learn of the taguel.”  Panne gave her a puzzled look. 

 

“Sure, I’d love to know more,” Fyra began carefully, “but… I don’t want to add to your pain.”

 

“For all the sorrow my memories hold, they bring me joy in far greater measure.”  Panne’s expression softened a bit, reassuring Fyra that her words had been genuine.

 

“I’m glad.”  

 

Panne hummed in acknowledgement.  Or agreement, Fyra considered, as she turned her attention back to their breakfast.  

 

They ate in silence for a bit longer, each consumed by her own thoughts.  Fyra was happy to picture these unfamiliar taguel in her mind--it was a welcome distraction from matters of war.  For a few, blissful moments, she pondered the joys of a life with wings.

 

It was the harsh blast of a horn that cut those thoughts short.  The sound signaled for the Shepherds to rise, and with that, Fyra knew she could linger no more.

 

She looked up, startled at the sound of Panne rising quickly, a grimace on her face.  Fyra regretted not warning her--that couldn’t have been easy on her ears.

 

“I suppose that awful noise has a meaning?”  Upon closer inspection, Panne’s shoulders were tensed, and her hand had drifted to the pouch at her waist.  She looked at Fyra with unease, though there was no trace of fear in her eyes.   
  


“Oh, it’s not for us,” Fyra answered as she hurried to stand up.  “Most of the Shepherds will be waking up to that.”

 

“Hmm.”  Panne gracefully abandoned her former stance, though she remained standing.  “I suppose we are lucky, then,” she said to Fyra, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

 

“Yeah,” Fyra answered, smiling in turn.  “There’s still some time before the march, but… I have to meet up with Chrom a bit early…”

 

“So be it.”  Panne watched as Fyra gathered up the remains of their breakfast--nothing but crumbs and the bag she’d brought it in.  “Do not be late on my account.” 

 

With that, Panne turned to continue packing her own belongings, moving to her bedroll and reaching toward the blanket whose color and embroidery so poorly fit its drab surroundings.  She stopped short, however, and turned to find Fyra staring.

 

“Oh, um--that blanket’s really nice.  I was wondering--”

 

“We march within the hour, yes?” Panne asked brusquely, the suddenness making Fyra jump.  She nodded, too stunned to speak, although nothing about Panne’s demeanor was unkind. “I will see you then.”  Her expression was guarded as she turned back around. She folded the blanket quickly, but with careful motions--as if a gentle breeze might tear it to shreds.  “Thank you for the meal.”

 

Alright, that one was apparently off-limits.  She didn’t know the reason, but she certainly wasn’t going to press Panne on it further.  It was a nice blanket, and she’d leave it at that.

 

“No, uh, thank  _ you _ , Panne.  It was lovely.”  Fyra started toward the entrance, offering a wave out of habit.  “See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading as always! <3 The Shepherds are on the move! Featuring a very secretive bunny and a very sleep-deprived tactician. You can't win wars half-asleep, Fyra! When will she learn???


	5. Chapter 5

The Shepherds were more aptly described as a militia than an army, and their thin formation sorely reflected this.  

 

Phila’s contingent of pegasus knights were split between the front and rear, with the Shepherds and a handful of foot soldiers filling out the center.  They were less than a hundred strong--easily. In theory, this was to their advantage: a small, discreet force to escort Emmeryn to the eastern palace with none the wiser.  But in practice, it was a grim picture of their meager numbers. With every warrior in Ylisse, their army would pale in comparison to that of Valm or Ferox… or Plegia.

 

This was the price of peace, she supposed.  They weren’t here to fight another nation. Their only goal was to protect the exalt.

 

Lady Emmeryn, for her part, had done astonishingly well.  Riding all day was no easy task, yet she sat atop the saddle now with as much grace and poise as she’d started with.  Her siblings had foregone mounts, as had Fyra, and they were all paying the price.

 

Chrom seemed the least affected, though Frederick doted on his liege as he rode up and down the column.  Lissa put on a brave face, but the fatigue was plain in her steps. And Fyra…

 

Well, the weather was nice, at least.

 

It was cool for early autumn.  She was thankful for her strange coat and thick underclothes.  They marched along a well-beaten path within a dense forest, the trees on either side shading them from the worst of the sun.  Despite the evenness of the ground, Fyra’s feet had long since begun to ache, and by midday, the pain had begun to creep up her legs, too.  

 

She’d focused hard on walking, too tired to mingle much even during the breaks.  But as Frederick’s voice brought the column to a halt, she plopped onto the ground unceremoniously, and chanced a look over at Panne.

 

Aside from Emmeryn’s siblings, Phila, and Fyra, Panne was one of the closest to the exalt.  Fyra had placed her there deliberately--partly to make sure no one tried to bother her--but she’d come to regret it as the day wore on.  She still felt guilty after prying about the blanket. It was small, sure, but as she’d left Panne’s tent that morning, it occurred to her that she never apologized.

 

Lost in thoughts, and staring again.  Panne noticed, of course, and tilted her head inquisitively.  Despite carrying her things on her back--she’d refused to hand her bag off to someone on horseback--the day’s march seemed to have little effect on her.  Most people sat down where they’d stood, or found somewhere to sit off to the side. Yet Panne, still standing, hadn’t even taken off her pack.

 

Unsure of how she’d react, but too exhausted to think of something better, Fyra extended a hand, inviting Panne to sit across from her. 

 

To Fyra’s surprise, Panne walked over, slung off her pack, and joined her in the dirt.  

 

“Are we to make camp here for the night?” Panne asked without looking at Fyra, preoccupied as she checked through her belongings.

 

“No,” Fyra began, trying to sound casual, “there’s supposed to be a temple further in.  It should be a fine place to sleep, but…” She spared a look around, taking in the golden haze of the quickly setting sun.   “Well, we’re  _ supposed _ to get there before dark.”

 

Panne did not seem convinced that that would be the case.  “Fear not. I am no stranger to sleeping under the stars, should it come to that.”  Fyra realized too late that her heart was beating a bit too fast for normal conversation.   _ Does she think I’m worried about sleeping out here? _

 

“R-Right.”  The one night she’d spent outside had been sleepless, full of bloodshed and Risen.  The memory certainly gave her no comfort. But now she marched with the Shepherds, as full a force as they could muster--the Risen could not surprise them this time.  If it came to camping here, so be it. 

 

It was easy to endure a night or two at the mercy of the elements, Fyra supposed, when she knew a warm bed awaited at the eastern palace, and again in Ferox.  But Panne had spent years with no place to call home. That sobering thought gave Fyra the push she needed. 

 

“Um… I’m sorry about earlier.  I didn’t mean to pry. About the blanket.”  It took considerable effort to meet Panne’s eyes, but she did.  

 

Those red eyes blinked once, twice.

 

“What did you say?  That it was nice?” Panne smiled faintly, fleeting as the hue of autumn leaves.  “It most certainly is.” She looked up, into the trees, well past Fyra. “Or it was.  Now it is old, and worn.” A moment of silence hung in the air between them. “It was from my warren.”

 

Panne’s eyes were shut tight now, a troubled expression contorting her features.

 

“Hmm.”  Panne stirred at the sound of Fyra’s voice, roused from whatever unpleasant thoughts had taken hold of her.  “Maybe it was nicer before, but it looked pretty sturdy to me. And even if it gets run down… you could always make it part of something new.”  Fyra really didn’t know much about sewing, but she’d heard of people doing that. It was like patching up old clothes. 

 

“Perhaps.”  Panne seemed rather disinterested in the idea as she returned to rummaging through her things.  “Very little remains of what I had before. I fled with few possessions, and I have learned to guard them well.”  She seemed to be talking half to herself. “You did nothing wrong, Fyra. I am… simply not accustomed to innocent curiosity.”

 

“That, and you haven’t known me very long.  You have every reason to be cautious, especially after, err… well, humans have given you plenty of cause for suspicion.”  That was an understatement, and a foolish one, at that. Yeah, Fyra reprimanded herself, some suspicion was probably warranted toward the people who murdered her friends and family.  Too late, she attempted to correct herself. “Sorry, that was--”

 

“Humans like you, yes.  But not you.”

 

“Huh?”  That was not what she’d expected to follow her ineloquent remark.

 

“You do not bear the blame for what was done, so do not bear the guilt.”  Finally Panne looked up at her, eyes gleaming with determination, much to Fyra’s confusion.  Her tone was far more stern than Fyra would have expected, too. “Guilt creates distance. If you would learn of my people, cast it aside.”

 

It took a moment of slack-jawed staring before Fyra could formulate an appropriate response.  

 

“Alright… I can do that,” Fyra answered, with more confidence than she felt.  She had to try, at least. 

 

“Good.”

 

Panne returned to her pack, and Fyra wondered what else she had from her warren.  She would not ask about it, though. She’d dredged up enough painful memories as it was.  For the moment, she lay back on the uneven terrain and stared up through the gaps in the leaves overhead.  

 

She thought of her own mementos, few as they were.  The clothes on her back, worn and patched but sturdy.  She liked these the best. They were comfortable, familiar, and for now, all she needed.  Then the bronze sword at her hip--it had certainly seen better days. Soon, it would be due for replacement.  The thought did not bother her as much as she’d anticipated. 

 

The lightning tome was in far better shape.  She kept it at her belt, and had torn a few pages off to stuff in her coat pockets.  They’d be useful if she was disarmed, or if she needed to cast quickly. The tome itself felt…  _ right _ in her hands.  But something about the unfamiliar script within made her think twice about letting others see it.

 

It wasn’t the ancient tongue that the mages practiced--she’d recognize that, of course.  But it certainly wasn’t Ylissean. It showed up every few pages; dark, flowing script crowding the margins--sometimes overflowing onto the text proper.  

 

She couldn’t remember writing in it, of course, but she had a feeling that the words were hers.

 

Usually, she tried not to spend her time dwelling on lost memories.  But Fyra found herself turning her head, seeking out Panne’s figure once more, wondering what she was missing.  This time, when Panne noticed, Fyra smiled at her. 

 

Panne’s expression was somewhere between amusement and confusion.  

 

_ Joy in far greater measure… _

 

Fyra pushed up her sleeve a bit, examining the mark on her hand for the thousandth time.  

 

Perhaps her past was better left a mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fyra, if only you knew. Featuring some direct quotes from their supports, like last time, though it's all jumbled and out of order. Thank you as usual for reading, I hope you've enjoyed! <3 Next week is a really long chapter, so look forward to that--I'm sorry this one's so short. I just couldn't break them up better haha. Have a good week everyone!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thank you for reading as usual! This is definitely the chapter I'm most excited about so far. It's pretty long, but I couldn't split it up any other way. There may or may not be an update next week... so I hope you enjoy this one! <3 Thank you as always!!!

It was well into dusk by the time they reached the temple.  

 

Their path became wider, more smooth and clearly traveled.  Eventually, a stone wall began to appear on either side of them--and soon enough, a building in the distance, its gleaming limestone and magic torches a welcome sight for the weary marchers.  

 

The temple’s hierarch was oddly energetic despite the hour.  He was wringing his hands in some sort of odd anticipation as Phila helped Emmeryn from her horse.  

 

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, his smile looking more like a grimace to Fyra.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Panne flinch at the volume. “It has been too long.”

 

“Truly, it has.”  Emmeryn was ever serene, taking his oddities in stride.  “Ylisse thanks you for your hospitality, good hierarch. I would sooner refrain from bringing an army to your doorstep, but…”

 

“It is no trouble at all, Your Grace.  These are trying times. Agents of peace such as yourself go with Naga’s blessing.”

 

Fyra’s attention waned as she stared intently at the temple before them.  It was in good condition, but even she could tell it was old. Maybe as old as Naga herself.  She wondered if any of the clerics knew how to fight. If the Risen came knocking, they’d need more than Naga’s divine protection.  All things considered, though, the temple was fairly defensible. A decently high wall, one main entrance. If they had enough room for their small escort, it would be the safest place she slept in awhile.  

 

Mm… sleep.  Now there was a comforting thought.

 

“And this is Fyra.”

 

Hearing her name in Chrom’s voice nearly made her jump.  She bowed instead.

 

“That would be me.  It’s good to meet you, ser.”  It was the proper title for a knight, not a priest, but Fyra wasn’t quite sure what else to call him.  

 

“Ah, the budding tactician.  Yes, I’ve heard of you.” The old man smiled at Fyra, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “What a curious name. Is that foreign?” Something about the way he asked the question told Fyra he’d already come to his own conclusion.

 

And, by the gods, she was exhausted.  Her capacity for politeness was remarkably low, even _before_ a day of marching.  But now?

 

“Who knows?” she shrugged, matching his insincere smile.  “Certainly not me. Perhaps you could share some insight on the matter?”

 

She saw Chrom cover his mouth behind the hierarch, though there was no hiding the amusement in his and Lissa’s eyes.

 

As the hierarch sought to recover from Fyra’s flippant remark, something else caught his attention.  Or, well, _someone_.  

 

“Oh my.  What do we have here?”

 

Panne turned her head slowly, though her ears still swayed slightly in the wind.  As she scrutinized the man before her, her narrow red eyes reflected the torchlight along the path, giving them an eerie glow.  The hierarch recoiled at the mere sight of this, clutching a hand to his chest in surprise. Fyra was simply left wondering if that meant she could see in the dark.  

 

“A Shepherd,” Chrom announced suddenly, crossing his arms as the old man turned to look at him.  

 

“Yeah!” Lissa agreed, going to stand beside her brother.  “She saved Emm from assassins back in the capitol. Without her… we probably wouldn’t be here.”  Lissa’s voice grew quiet.

 

Panne stood stock-still for a moment, apparently not prepared for such praise.  She found her voice at last when the hierarch turned back to her.

 

“I am Panne, if you must know.”  

 

“Ah--yes, of course.  Panne, then. A pleasure.”  He offered a bow in return for her introduction.  Panne probably didn’t notice, however, as she had already begun walking away.

 

“I’m afraid our soldiers are tired.  It’s been a long day.” The exalt saved them all from further awkwardness.  She looked as though she would continue, but the priest eagerly cut in. Despite his age, he seemed to have no lack of enthusiasm.  

 

“Of course, of course!  We’ve room for you, all of you!  And warm beds for the royal family.”  

 

At this point, Fyra was exhausted enough that a night on the temple’s stone floor sounded just about as good.  

 

“That’s very kind of you, but I’ll sleep with the rest of the soldiers,” Chrom replied, a tense smile on his face.  “A roof over our heads is more than enough.”

 

“Forgive my brother,” Emmeryn began with an amused glance at Chrom.  “I assure you, your generosity will not be forgotten. Once again, the royal family is in your debt.”

 

Had Fyra not known how unpopular Emmeryn was toward the beginning of her reign, she might have outright laughed at the statement.  Lending their extra floor space to the exalt’s escort should have been the hierarch’s duty to the halidom, not an act of goodwill. But if someone ever mistook her humble nature for weakness, Fyra would be the first to disagree.  In the short time she’d known her, the exalt had treated her less like a vassal and more like a family friend. Fyra was proud to serve a ruler like her.

 

As Emmeryn voiced her gratitude, the old man seemed eager to change the subject.

 

“Think nothing of it, Your Grace.  Your presence honors us--as well as the mighty Shepherds, of course.  We’ve a warm meal prepared, if you’d break bread with us.” He mentioned the stew they’d prepared--enough to feed an army, or so the clerics hoped.  

 

After the exalt thanked him profusely--again--she began to follow the hierarch into the cathedral, Phila a few paces behind.  When he realized the rest of the group hadn’t followed, he peered back at them, leaning heavily on his ornately carved staff.

 

“Will you not be joining us, Prince Chrom?  Princess Lissa?”

 

Fyra held back a sigh, tapping her fingers impatiently against her leg.

 

Apparently, Chrom was also reaching his limit for dealing with nonsense.  “No, I’m afraid the _three_ of us still have business left to attend to.  I’m sure we’re all looking forward to dinner, though,” he added after a moment, complete with an awkward bow.  “Until then.”

 

Fyra bowed, following Chrom and Lissa’s example, though it was not as low as it should have been.  If anyone asked, she’d blame it on her sore muscles, but… the old man’s rude comments were fresh in her mind.  

 

Naga was a Divine Dragon--a manakete, right?  Like Panne shifting her form into that of a rabbit, surely Naga would shift between human and dragon, Fyra thought.  Yet this man had, like so many, regarded Panne suspiciously. Wouldn’t Naga guard all of her mortal charges--human, taguel, or otherwise?  The infuriating disdain with which he’d regarded Panne was enough to make Fyra dislike him. But combined with the rude comments he’d made toward the both of them…

 

Once he’d guided their party through the mountains, Fyra would take great joy in being rid of him.  

 

She and Chrom shared a glance that confirmed they were both thinking the same thing.  As soon as his sister was out of earshot, he let out a frustrated sigh.

 

“Thank Naga that’s over.”  He cast a sympathetic glance at Fyra.  “Sorry he was so, uh…”

 

“Sorry he was such a _jerk_ ,” Lissa finished for him.  “Sorry to you, too, Panne.” The princess looked well beyond displeased.  And also beyond Fyra, who jumped when the woman in question seemed to materialize next to her.  

 

“I have endured far worse than that.”  Chrom grimaced at that--but Panne wasn’t done.  “Yet I have rarely been defended. Thank you--both of you.”  

 

Both Lissa and her brother were plainly surprised.  Lissa’s shock was short-lived, though. Soon she was beaming from ear to ear.

 

“You can count on us, Panne!”  Despite the exhausting day she’d had, the princess was bursting with energy.  “Next person who says something rude to you, I’ll smack ‘em right across the--”

 

Though her joke had a smile tugging at the edges of his lips, Chrom looked like he was about to cut her antics short--until he and his sister both were stunned into silence.

 

Panne’s laughter was an unfamiliar sound.  That was not to say it was unpleasant, though.  Quite the opposite, as far as Fyra was concerned.

 

“I will hold you to that, little one.”  It was less that Lissa was young, and more that she had to crane her neck to meet Panne’s eyes.  But the princess wasn’t a grown woman--not yet. Maybe she’d been spared the teachings of hate and fear that brought the taguel so much strife.

 

“Hey!” Lissa screeched in mock offense.  She balled her hands into fists, adopting a decent fighting stance.  “I can hit plenty hard when I need to!” Fyra would have bet on her, for sure.

 

Panne seemed to think similarly.

 

“Mm, I don’t doubt it.  That is something I should like to see.”  Her voice was deadly serious, with not a single trace of sarcasm.  Or, well, Fyra thought so. Maybe she overestimated how stoic this woman was in the first place.

 

“Yes, well, save it for the battlefield, please.”  Chrom regarded Lissa with a warm smile--the kind that made his sparkle.  The kind that made Fyra even more determined to keep that smile around. “How about you use that energy for unpacking?”

 

“What?!  Seriously?”

 

The pair fell back into their usual lighthearted banter.  It was a balm for her nerves--but not for her muscles. Pain or no, they all had work to do.

 

In the end, it took a half hour or so to make sure everyone was safely camped at the cathedral.  They took inventory, managed supplies, sent a search party out for stragglers, cared for the horses… Fyra found herself grateful for their meager numbers.  

 

With nearly all of Emmeryn’s escort settled at the temple, it was time for dinner--and not a moment too soon.  Fyra was ravenous, and she was far from the only one. She’d even seen Panne eating berries as she worked.

 

Now, as their party finished settling in, a sizable crowd was gathered at the large double doors leading into the temple proper.  First in line were Stahl and Sully, who no doubt had made a contest of who could finish fastest. Maribelle and Lissa were chatting excitedly behind them, while Chrom was further toward the back with Ricken and Sumia.  Fyra had noticed him helping the young mage earlier, despite the fact that Ricken had went against his wishes by joining them. Sure, the boy pulled his weight, but sending kids to the battlefield would never sit well with Fyra.  She encouraged him to keep up with his studies only for his own protection, and always positioned him behind their more capable fighters. One day, he might join them on the front lines, but Fyra hoped the war would be long over by the time he reached that age.

 

In the middle of the crowd, she had a decent vantage point.  Not even a day of marching could crush her allies’ lively spirits.  She could only hope that their wills remained strong in the days to come.

 

Her darkening thoughts made the wait particularly excruciating, but at some point, she’d gotten to the front.  A warm, overfilled bowl was thrust into her hands, and she was ushered to the next empty spot at a long wooden table.  Miriel sat to her left, offering her a small nod of acknowledgement before returning her attention to the book in her lap.  Fyra uttered a small greeting in return before lifting her bowl to gracelessly slurp its contents.

 

She finally took a break when the bench shifted and Panne sat down beside her.

 

Panne lifted her bowl too, hardly seeming to notice Fyra at all… until she put an arm on Panne’s wrist impulsively.

 

“Uh, I don’t… I don’t know what’s in this.”  As soon as Panne turned to look at her, she pulled back her arm, glancing away sheepishly.  “Sorry. Just didn’t want you to get sick.”

 

Panne snorted, red eyes twinkling in amusement.  “At this point? I will take my chances.”

 

“Wh--really?”  She clearly hadn’t offended, at least.  But Fyra was somewhere between laughter and concern.  If Panne gambled and lost, well… “bad” would be an understatement.

 

She smirked at Fyra’s noise of disbelief.  “Usually I can smell them in something like this.  Yet I sense no such odor.”

 

Fyra felt her shoulders droop with relief.  “Oh, good. Well, I hope you enjoy it, then!”

 

Panne shrugged before gulping down a significant portion of her meal.  This time, Fyra only watched for a second--her hunger won out in the end.  They’d both foregone conversation for filling their stomachs, and at that moment, neither could have been happier for it.  

 

Despite starting first, Fyra was last to finish.  When she finally set her bowl down, she looked up to find Panne resting her head on her arm, staring at Fyra.  

 

She tried to formulate a question, but Panne saved her the trouble.  

 

“These staff-bearers know nothing of subtlety.  One has not taken her eyes off me this whole time.”  Panne looked over her shoulder. “Hmm. Perhaps she finally fled.”

 

“I’m--”  No. She was going to apologize, but… wasn’t that what Panne had told her _not_ to do?  She deliberated for a moment, biting her lip.  “If you’d rather sleep outside, I’m sure we can set up a tent.”

 

“ _We?_ ” Panne sputtered.

 

“I said I’d help if people bothered you.  I’m keeping my word, Panne.” She pressed on, despite feeling utterly foolish.  “I don’t mind sleeping outside to keep you company. Cold floor or cold ground, doesn’t really matter to me…”  She trailed off. “Just… if you want to get away from these people, there’s no reason you have to be alone.”

 

Fyra surprised herself with how much she meant those words.  No, she wasn’t eager to sleep in the cold when a warm temple beckoned.  But she saw the way the clerics gawked at Panne, and she could not forget the way the hierarch regarded her with such disdain.  Fyra herself had been getting stares from the clergy too, but until now she’d thought it was her status. But no, she’d realized, they just knew an outsider when they saw one.

 

“You are odd indeed, Fyra.”

 

At first, Fyra felt heat rising to her cheeks--she'd been a bit too enthusiastic, she thought.  But Panne wasn't using the word “odd” like other people did. Like humans did. It wasn't bad, just… different.  And this was easy to see in Panne's face. Fyra’s attitude was new and different for Panne, but certainly not unwelcome.  Her gaze was met with red eyes crinkled in amusement.

 

She supposed she was proud to be “odd” in Panne’s eyes, then.

 

“I guess I am,” Fyra replied with a smile.  “And, well… even knowing that I’m Ylisse’s tactician, they’re giving _me_ plenty of strange looks too.”  She looked behind them, and sure enough, one of the clerics was staring.  

 

This time, however, the woman walked toward them.  Fyra braced herself--though for what, she wasn’t sure.  This woman was middle-aged, and frail enough that physical conflict would surely be out of the question.  The worst Fyra expected at this point were rude comments and invasive questions. With food in her belly, she was less likely to snap at the woman, but she hoped to end this quickly nonetheless.  If Panne bit back with anything close to anger, she feared the cowardly onlookers might take it as aggression. Fyra had no desire to put either of them in such a situation. With this in mind, she turned around in her seat.

 

“May I help you?” Fyra asked as politely as she could.  The woman looked startled, like she didn't think Fyra would notice her.  She received another shock as Panne turned around as well.

 

“Oh--err--yes, I suppose you can, my lady.  You are the tactician, yes?” Fyra nodded. “And you, uh…”  She turned toward Panne, visibly swallowing. “One of the Shepherds?”

 

Panne looked surprised to hear herself referred to as such.  “I suppose.” Her voice was even, cautious, her gaze narrowed in suspicion.  Panne was waiting for something to go wrong, Fyra thought. Just as she herself was.

 

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” she continued while looking at Fyra.  When assured that she wasn't, she turned back to Panne. “May I ask your name, my lady?”

 

“Panne.”  

 

The woman nodded, biting her lip.  They had answered her questions amicably enough, yet she still looked apprehensive.  Fyra felt for the pages of her thunder tome in her inner pockets. She wasn't expecting to fight a priestess, but a small storm in her hands might serve as a warning, if required.  

 

“Are you… one of the taguel?”  

 

It took a moment of staring in shock for Panne to answer.  “You… you know of my people?”

 

Fyra shared in her surprise, of course, though after a moment she realized that wariness tinged Panne’s voice as well.  

 

“I was born in Plegia--my family lived close to the warren near the Ylissean border.  We often saw your people in the marketplace. After hearing of the attack, I… I wasn’t sure I’d ever see a taguel again.  I wasn’t meaning to stare, but it’s been so long… I thought perhaps my eyes deceived me.” Panne still only stared, shoulders tensing at mention of her warren’s demise.  

 

“They did not.  You stand before the last of the taguel.”  Panne’s voice had a hard edge to it--like she was issuing a challenge instead of speaking her absolute solitude aloud.  “Few man-spawn would recognize what I am. But you were not the only one staring. Do the other priests know of my people as well?”  

 

Judging by the hierarch’s reaction, Fyra would have bet on the contrary.  This particular cleric was an exception to the scathing eyes that followed Panne and Fyra around the temple.  

 

“Naga watches over each and every one of us.  Human, manakete, or taguel; it makes no difference.”  The woman seemed earnest, even passionate. But her gaze shifted as she continued.  “I suppose… not _all_ of the disciples here think like I do,” she said, fiddling with the hem of her dress.  Her obvious understatement got a snort out of Panne. Her suspicions were confirmed, Fyra assumed: she was a curiosity to just about everyone else.  “Most have grown up only around humans. But not a one of them would dare harm a Shepherd--I promise you that.” She uttered those last words looking Panne in the eye.  

 

But her intensity could not make up for her poor choice of words.  

 

“Do you know what taguel look like, transformed?  I doubt your fellows will see me as a Shepherd then.”  Panne raised her voice slightly, though there was no hint of malice in her tone.  Fyra thought she almost looked tired, like she’d had this very conversation before.  “You may mean well, but such a promise is empty.”

 

“I have seen your people’s power, yes.  It's not so frightening.” Panne remained unmoved by the woman's attempt to convince her.  Her words weren’t doing much for Fyra, either. Words alone could not make Panne feel safe here.  “We call Naga the Divine Dragon. It is not her human state we revere.”

 

There was a dry, joyless laugh in Panne’s throat, like cracked earth on a scorching day.  

 

“I am taguel.  Not a manakete.  What man-spawn think of my kind could not be further from reverence.”  She shook her head in disbelief. “But worry not. Unless we are attacked, you’ll not have to keep that promise.  Transforming here will only bring trouble.”

 

“Such sorrow lies within you…”  Fyra couldn't help but grimace upon hearing that.  Panne was glaring at the priestess now, a scowl on her face.  “I shall pray for the wounds of your past to heal.”

 

Some fairytale goddess-dragon wasn’t going to erase the scars of the past.  If this woman wanted Panne to feel safe, she’d have to put in more effort than asking Naga to do it for her.  Fyra took her hand out of her coat, knowing now she wouldn’t need any kind of magic. This woman was a threat only to Fyra’s sanity.

 

“Your prayers will not return my dead, man-spawn,” Panne snarled before turning her back on the cleric.  She had long since finished her food, so she merely sat glaring into an empty bowl. Her hands were balled into fists, her shoulders tensed.  

 

“No, but she may yet ease your burden of grief.  May Naga guide your steps, brave one.”

 

“Thanks for the prayers and all, but I think we'd both appreciate some peace and quiet.”  Fyra tried not to sound annoyed. She supposed the woman was only trying to help, but it left a sour taste in her mouth.  If Naga watched over everyone, where was she when Panne’s warren was attacked in the first place? Fyra waved, hoping the cleric would take the hint.

 

She looked like she was about to go, but when Fyra put her hand back on her lap, the woman suddenly leaned in close.

 

“Oh, my--that mark on your hand--”

 

Upon hearing this, Panne turned toward them.  There wasn’t much to see, though--Fyra was quick to pull down her sleeves.  

 

“Hmm?  I must’ve missed a spot when washing them,” Fyra lied.  “It’s been a long day.” She shrugged, careful to make sure only her palms were showing.  Her suddenly rapid heartbeat would not betray her to this woman, at least.

 

“May Naga guide you as well, then.”  

 

The woman looked a bit skeptical, but didn’t press her further.  She bowed to Fyra and walked back toward the other clerics. Several of them clustered around her--hopefully, they were asking about Panne, she thought with a pang of guilt.

 

“Ugh.”  Fyra turned back around and slumped against the table, resting her chin on her hand.  Her _left_ hand.  No mark to be found there.

 

She wondered how closely the woman had seen it.  It was far too detailed to be dirt. Fyra had rubbed her skin raw on multiple occasions trying to scrub it off--so she was sure it was something else.  A birthmark, she’d decided, though she had never seen one with such a deep, reddish color. But she had other things to think about… usually.

 

“I will be glad to leave in the morning,” Panne said with a sigh.  “This place… it feels wrong.”

 

“Wrong?”  Fyra looked up at that.  For her, it was mostly the people who put her off.  The hierarch was weird, sure, but the rest seemed rather ordinary, if with a bit too much faith in their deity and her followers.  “What makes you say that?”

 

“The smell, maybe.”  Panne shook her head with a sigh.  “Perhaps it is just the crowd that I dislike.”

 

“Well, I can’t blame you there.  She was…”

 

“Invasive.  Preferable to being cruel, at least.”

 

Fyra had noticed Panne’s scars before, but hadn’t looked closely until now.  Most were covered by her clothing and armor, she imagined, but at the moment she saw the remains of a deep cut down the length of Panne’s left arm.  It was an old wound, as far as she could tell, with the flesh raised and puckered. There was another faint line on Panne’s face as well, cutting down her cheekbone.  She wondered how many were the work of humans.

 

“What did she want with your hand?” Panne asked after a moment, tilting her head to look down at Fyra’s lap.  Her voice was quiet; Fyra had to strain to hear her over the din. “It seemed to… upset you.”

 

Even with all the background noise, Panne still heard her heartbeat?  How did she pick Fyra’s out of a crowd this big?

 

“It’s… complicated.”  Fyra didn’t know how to answer.  She wanted to tell Panne, but not here.  She lowered her voice to a whisper, considering the abilities of her audience.  “I can tell you. Just… somewhere else. Later.”

 

Panne nodded, an eyebrow raised in apparent interest.  

 

Several pairs of eyes were trained on them still--one backwards glance confirmed as much.  Fyra tried not to think about it as she idly ran a finger along the brim of her empty bowl.  She had no idea when she'd get a chance to tell Panne the truth--what she knew of it, anyway--but it clearly wasn't going to be any time soon.  Unless...

 

“So,” she began, still staring down into her bowl, “are we sleeping outside?”

 

“Hmm.”  Panne seemed to consider for a moment.  “No. I think it would be best to stay in here.”  She paused. “With the rest of the Shepherds.”

 

 _The_ rest _of them, huh?_  That certainly wasn’t what Fyra expected to hear.  But she wasn’t complaining. Perhaps she and Chrom’s efforts were actually paying off.  

 

“Sounds good to me!”

 

Sure enough, shortly thereafter, when the Shepherds laid out their bedrolls on the stone floor, Panne was among them.  So was Chrom, to Fyra’s exasperation. He meant well, and she supposed that his selflessness was exactly the reason the Shepherds held him in such high esteem.  But as far as Fyra was concerned, if anyone deserved to spend the night in a warm bed, it was Chrom.

 

Their chivalrous prince was setting down his pack at the far end of the cathedral, under the stained glass windows.  They were surely more beautiful in the daytime, but even now she could admire its colorful details. The four windows painted one triumphant image, of a crowned figure fighting a six-winged dragon, with the man’s sword plunged deep in the beast’s heart.  Its beady red eyes sent a chill down Fyra’s spine.

 

She gave a theatrical sigh as she approached Chrom, slinging her bag onto the floor beside his.  “You know, most of our soldiers would jump at the chance for a real bed after today.”

 

“Do you have someone in mind?  They’re welcome to it,” Chrom answered with a smile.  

 

“He’s a lost cause, I’m afraid,” Frederick lamented as he walked up beside her.  She hadn’t noticed him before--he was a bit less conspicuous than usual. For once, he was out of his armor, with a surprisingly plain shirt and trousers.  The only hint of his rank was a bow at his neck and embroidery along his sleeves, which were presently rolled up. “Good sense is beyond our prince at the moment.”

 

“Just at the moment?” Fyra laughed.  “You’re too kind to him.” At that, Frederick rolled his eyes--he wouldn’t be caught dead poking fun at Chrom’s expense, of course--but Fyra found a certain triumph in how the slight curve of his lips hinted at a smile.  

 

Chrom feigned offense for a bit, but something behind Fyra seemed to make him reconsider.

 

“Ah, Panne.  It’s good to see you!” he called to her with a wave.  

 

Panne did not return his gesture.  Instead, she dropped her bag next to Fyra’s.  “I suppose you will not mind if I sleep here, then.”

 

“Go right ahead!”  The prince took Panne’s response in stride.  As Panne sat down to go through her things, Fyra shot him a conspiratorial smile.  

 

Following Panne’s example, Fyra began to prepare her own place to sleep.  The situation was far from ideal: a woefully thin bedroll between her and the stone floor, her pack as a makeshift pillow, and her coat draped over her.  Still better than sleeping outside.

 

Any other day, the hall would have been full of chatter, despite the hour--the Shepherds were a notoriously social bunch.  But as Fyra settled in for the night, all she could hear was the sound of crackling torches, broken now and again by faint whispers.

 

When she turned to bid Chrom good night, she found him drooling into his pillow.  The sight was enough to bring a smile to her face, if only for a moment. She could not chase Panne’s words from her mind.

 

She didn’t know what felt “wrong” about this place, but it certainly didn’t feel _right_.  The image in the stained glass, the hierarch’s eccentricities…  But then, Fyra had no recollection of priests and their ilk. Panne had presumably never been to a place like this, either.  Perhaps their suspicion was simply born of unfamiliarity. In the same way Naga’s disciples looked strangely upon Panne and Fyra…

 

Fyra let out a frustrated sigh.  She thought back to the stares, the gossip, the hierarch’s condescension.  It was most certainly _not_ the same.  She was certain of this, yet the thought brought her little comfort all the same.

 

After what felt like several hours, her bodily exhaustion won over her unease.  But sleep’s blessed nothingness did not last for long.

 

From the blackness emerged six beady shapes, all gleaming red.  They were arranged neatly in two lines.

 

Once, twice, they flickered.

 

Or… maybe they were blinking?

 

The darkness suddenly took shape with an ear-splitting cry; Fyra would have flinched if she knew where she was, but she couldn’t feel her body, let alone control it.  For now, she was simply _there_ , witness to six red eyes boring into her as three pairs of great, feathered wings unfurled.  She could not even close her eyes to the terror before her.

 

When the beast opened its mouth, Fyra wished she could scream.  Behind rows upon rows of teeth, a face that was all too human stared back at her: unblinking, unmoving, with empty eye sockets like twin voids.  As the beast roared again, so did the ghastly skull buried deep in its maw--its mouth and the beast’s were one.

 

She woke just before the creature’s jaws closed around her, its breath hot with the stench of carrion--even as she opened her eyes in the waking world, she could not shake the beast's gaze from her mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Panne POV chapter! Ohohoho!!! Also i fixed the formatting. Enjoy, thank you for reading :D more notes at the end.

The guards outside of Emmeryn’s tent seemed to be expecting her.  They did not raise their weapons. But, faintly, Panne heard two heartbeats quicken in pace.  

She supposed they would not be frightened for Emmeryn’s sake--she had saved the exalt’s life, after all.  Like so many, they simply balked at the sight of a taguel… even as she was technically their “ally.” 

Not for the first time, Panne wondered how long this would last--how long before the man-spawn ran her off like a common beast.  

She wondered if her luck had run out as she gingerly stepped into the tent.  Even in the dark shroud of nighttime, Panne could see clearly--as any taguel could.  She could even pick out details; namely, the fine furnishings of the exalt’s tent. There was a thick, ornate rug beneath her feet, as well as two plush chairs situated across from each other, with a small table between them, next to which the exalt stood.  A lantern atop the table was the only source of light at the moment, casting a flickering glow around the tent.

“Thank you for coming, Panne.”  Emmeryn spoke softly, though it was more than enough to cause Panne some alarm.  “I know you must be weary.”

She was not weary.  Not physically, at least.  But she had no desire to correct her, lest it draw out this meeting.

It wasn’t that she disliked Emmeryn.  The woman meant well, at the very least.  But walking among the soldiers to get here was unpleasant.  And Panne had a feeling she already knew their topic of conversation.  

“You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes,” she answered with a smile.  “But please, have a seat.”

As Emmeryn sat, Panne followed with no small amount of hesitation.  She ran her hand along the fabric of the armrests--some kind of velvet, she thought.

“I wonder, how do you find your time with the Shepherds thus far?  My brother tells me that you were… made to feel unwelcome.” A troubled expression colored Emmeryn’s features.  

Just as she’d thought.

“It is nothing to which I am unaccustomed,” Panne assured her.  When she did not take care to hide herself--and her ears--beneath a hood, stares were usually the least of her problems.  The soldiers around her tent outside Ylisstol had been little more than an annoyance. “They posed no threat to me.”

Despite her intentions to reassure Emmeryn, Panne's answer seemed to pain her further.

“Has it been better?  During the march?”

Panne nodded.

“Though I suppose there has been little time for such things…”  Emmeryn looked away, apparent guilt twisting her mouth into a frown.  “I am so sorry. I--”

“Your guilt alone will change nothing.”  Panne kept her voice even. There was no anger within her, no desire to add venom to her words.  That rage had turned to cold ash long ago. But as was usually the case with humans, Panne’s manner of speaking was misunderstood.

To her credit, Emmeryn did not flinch.  Her heartbeat was steady. She had more nerve than those cravens standing watch, Panne thought.  

“You have not wronged me,” Panne began.  “I… am thankful that you care. Most of your kind would not.  If you truly think you can change them… I should like to see it.  But I will not blame you for their actions.”

“Then I shall see that the issue is resolved, and trouble you no further.”  Emmeryn spoke with a hard edge to her tone, and looked Panne in the eye. Truth be told, she was thankful for the bluntness--thankful that the exalt’s usually passive demeanor was gone.  Panne shifted in her chair, thinking their conversation was over until Emmeryn cut in once again. “But my question remains: are you happy with the Shepherds?”

“Happy?”  Panne might have laughed at Emmeryn, had the human not seemed so sincere.  She shook her head, furrowing her brow-- _ what is there to be happy about? _  “I do not enjoy your human wars, no.”

“Neither do I.  Forgive me; I’m afraid I misspoke.  I meant to ask if… if you intend to remain with the Shepherds.  I suppose they-- _ we _ \--have given you little reason to do so.”

Panne sighed in frustration, digging her nails into the chair’s fine fabric.  She had her reason to stay, given to her kin a thousand years ago, and nothing a single man-spawn did now would change that.  She would not forfeit her honor to rude glances and ill-made japes. And she would certainly not forsake one of the few traditions she still remembered.  The taguel’s burden rested on her shoulders alone. They had kept this oath for a thousand years, and it would take far more than this for Panne to break it.  

“You would have me leave, then?” she asked through gritted teeth.  “Was I not clear enough when I said it was my duty to aid you?” She could not help but glare as she spoke.  “If you wish to be rid of me, do not dress it up in pretty words. Speak plainly. Or you waste your breath and my time.”

Emmeryn seemed to consider for a moment.  “I do not wish you to leave, Panne. In fact, I feel safer with you around.  But to put yourself at risk for my sake… I would not ask it of you. You have more than paid your warren’s debt, I should think.  I’m not so sure Ylisse is worthy of it now… if we ever were.” There was real sorrow on Emmeryn’s face, though Panne wasn’t sure why.  That brand on her forehead was all the proof the taguel needed.

“The First Exalt was worthy.  It is  _ his _ country, his bloodline, that we--that _ I _ \--protect.”  She looked away, her eyes drawn to the lantern’s weak flame.  In truth, she would not have stayed beyond the battle, had Emmeryn not approached her.  And she surely would have chased Fyra away from her tent, rather than let her inside. “You seem… to uphold his legacy.  And… you have my gratitude. You reminded me of a truth I’d almost forgotten.”

“That is high praise indeed.  But… of what, exactly, did I remind you?”

“I have always known that there are good men, as well as wicked.  But after so many years spent in hiding, I seemed as likely to find a kind human as a rose blooming in a blizzard.”  She could not help but admire the childlike curiosity in Emmeryn’s gaze. A week ago, she would not have believed that a human leader would listen so intently to her every word.  Yet here she sat, with the exalt of Ylisse concerned for her happiness. “You felt my pain as yours--and you treat me as an ally, you value my trust.” Panne could not help but feel that she was rambling.  Yet she pressed on until she was somewhat satisfied with her words. Such was her gratitude: the last few days were her happiest since the warren’s destruction. “You reminded me that there are humans like you in this world… and that they may be closer than I realize.  Thank you, Emmeryn.”

She was not one to waste time with lies; she meant her every word.  But as always, this sort of happiness made her wary, and a growing fear lingered in the back of her mind: would this joy turn to ash just as quickly?  

_ Perhaps I am foolish to hope _ .  Her thoughts turned to her mother, and her brother, whose faces she could hardly remember.  Kind humans or not, she had no place among them. How could she be so naive? She clenched a fist in her lap, her claws digging into the soft skin of her palm.

“Panne…”  

The sound of her name stopped her short, before she could draw blood.  So few people knew her name, so seldom had she heard it since that terrible night.  “Your words bring me such joy.” Emmeryn beamed up at her, wiping a tear from her eye.

“They… do?”  With some difficulty, Panne unclenched her fist.  She could still feel the marks she had made, little crescents begging her not to give in.  Hope was dangerous, and when this fleeting joy ended, it would make her grief sting all the more.  It would only make the solitude harder to bear. But she looked to those kind eyes in the dimness, and dared anyway.

“Ideally, no one would fight or die on my behalf.  No matter how dearly I desire peace, Plegia has made it clear there is no such option.  But perhaps some good has come of this, after all, if you have found peace among the Shepherds.”  

Peace, in the midst of a human war?  At night, she lay beside dozens of man-spawn, untransformed and surrounded by strangers.  When the nightmares relented, unease kept her awake. She was hesitant enough to trust Fyra’s goodwill--she was a long way off from feeling safe sleeping under the watch of human sentries.  They seemed likely enough to blame her for a threat as protect her from one. But she thought of how Chrom and Lissa had jumped to her defense with the hierarch. The taste of warm carrot stew came to mind, and the nearly-forgotten joy of a meal shared with another.                                                 

Before Panne could react, Emmeryn had leaned across the table, and clasped Panne’s stinging palm in her hands.  They were dainty, uncalloused, and smaller than Panne’s. Yet her long, sculpted nails seemed to have dirt underneath.  She spent a moment, marveling at her warm touch, before realizing Emmeryn was speaking.

“I shall see that my people remember your courage.  From farmhand to noble, every soul in Ylisse will know of the taguel’s hand in saving my life.  You’re right that change cannot occur overnight,” Emmeryn admitted, squeezing her hand as if to lament this truth, causing Panne’s breath to catch in her throat.  “But by this war’s end… you shall have peace here. Along with any of your kin who may yet live,” she continued, her brows furrowed in determination. With her steely tone of voice, she sounded every bit the leader she was.  “I swear this to you, Panne, by the very life you have saved.”

The ever-present bitterness sneered in the back of her mind:  _ there is only one of us left.  There will only ever be one. To give peace to one woman is little work at all. _

But  _ if  _ there were others, by some miracle… the taguel would need a new warren.  If there were others, they deserved a chance to live without the strife that she had known. 

Perhaps Emmeryn’s efforts would not be enough, and the man-spawn of Ylisse would never welcome her kind.  Or perhaps this war would kill her, and with it, the last of the taguel. But just as on the night they met, Panne could not help but be moved by Emmeryn’s sincerity.  Maybe it was the kindness in her eyes, the gentle warmth of her hands, the ring of Panne’s name on her lips.

“You would give us a home?” she asked quietly, her voice weaker than she would have liked.  She knew not what the future held, but after the faintest taste of joy? Panne was not sure she could suffer solitude again.  

“Anywhere in Ylisse would be as a home to you.  But should you desire something more permanent, it would be my honor to give it,” Emmeryn said with a smile.  “Ylisse will be better for your presence.” 

She looked first at the dainty hands clasping her own.  Then she looked up, into the light eyes of the exalt. Panne would never forget her grim reality: the Taguel would die with her, and her end would likely come before the war’s.  But if that were not the case… it would be the first time in decades that she had a place to return to, when the fighting was done. She found a certain joy in sleeping under the stars, in the radiance of the moon, but too often had that joy turned sour in the wake of storms, or when man-spawn hunters mistook her rabbit form for prey.  If anyone had the power to grant her a safe place to live, surely it was the ruler of all Ylisse. 

“You have my gratitude.  And… if any of my kin remain, I’m sure they will be grateful as well,” Panne added, gently pulling her hands from Emmeryn’s grasp.  “I know not if I’ll survive this war. But I will have peace of mind, knowing that the taguel shall not fade from memory so easily.”

“This war is uncertain for all of us, I'm afraid,” Emmeryn answered with sorrow in her eyes.  “Yet even if neither of us survive it, I shall see that my successors keep this promise.”

Those words sent a chill down Panne’s spine.  But by the time she thought to contest the notion that the exalt could die under a taguel’s protection, Emmeryn was smiling again.  

“You need not have given me anything,” Panne finally said, with a growing sense of unease.  “But regardless, you have my sincere thanks.” In her discomfort, she’d begun to dig her sharp nails into the arm of her chair again.  With some effort, she loosened her grip and stood up, towering over the seated exalt. 

“You are most welcome, Panne,” Emmeryn answered as she stood up.  “If you should want for anything else, merely ask, and it shall be done.”  

Panne nodded her acknowledgement, though she doubted she’d soon be asking for help.  She looked between the flickering lantern and Emmeryn’s smile in the soft light, and as they both walked toward the entrance, she wondered what scars this woman hid past her fine clothes and ever-steady heartbeat.  Chrom and Lissa were so easily stirred. Yet not once had she witnessed Emmeryn’s calm waver, even when assassins had come for her.

For a moment, she felt her heart ache, in the same way Emmeryn had ached for her when they’d met.  There was something painfully familiar in her quiet resolve, in her acceptance of a burden far heavier than one woman could easily shoulder.  Panne was no exalt--such lofty titles had no place in a warren--but she knew how it felt, to carry the hopes of a people. 

There were a thousand words on the edge of her tongue.  Never before had she so strongly desired to help a human… but that wasn’t what held her back.  No, she knew Emmeryn’s attitude far too well, and knew that she would not accept anything resembling help.  Not yet, at least.    


This must have been how Fyra felt, she thought.  Longing to help someone whose sorrows lay far beneath her steely composure.  

She could hardly blame her.  People like Emmeryn--people like Panne… they had to protect themselves somehow.  But these thoughts of Fyra gave her pause. 

“I know you must be busy.”  At these words, Emmeryn stopped in her tracks, turning toward Panne with a questioning glance.  “Still… perhaps we could speak again sometime. I would like to know more about Ylisse, especially if I am to live here when all this is done.”

Emmeryn smiled at that, with no small amount of surprise.  “It would be my pleasure, Panne.”

With that, she lifted the tent flap and walked outside, Panne following closely behind.  The guards on either side gave them a wide berth. As the sounds of the outdoors enveloped her, Panne picked up on a set of hurried footfalls.  She heard the slight clinking of metal, faint whispers of fabric flapping in the wind. 

She strained her ears toward the sound, turning her head ever so slightly.  It was a woman’s voice, she thought, breathing heavily.

“Someone is coming.”  Panne stopped, reaching out toward Emmeryn before she could think better of it.  

The guards put their hands on their weapons.  Not because of what she’d said, Panne realized, but because of what she’d done.  She had clasped Emmeryn’s arm--gently, but still, apparently not looked upon kindly.  

“Hmm?”  Emmeryn cocked her head to the side, calm as ever despite her misstep.  “Do you hear something?” 

Panne slowly put her hand back at her side, sparing a quick glare to the guard closest to her.  “Perhaps not.”

At this rate, they would be here soon enough.  She checked the pouch at her waist and found her beaststone in its proper place.  If someone sought to harm the exalt, she was far better equipped to stop them than these cowards who flinched at her every movement.  

She did not have to wait long before a familiar woman appeared from their left, running hard til just a few paces before the exalt, at which point she slowed and gave a low bow.  Panne could not remember her name, but she knew this was no enemy of hers. She removed her hand from her stone slowly, willing her taut muscles to relax--to no avail. This woman must have had a reason for the urgency, running around when most of the camp was asleep.  Surprisingly, she offered a brief nod to Panne before turning her attention back to Emmeryn. 

“Your Grace.  We found--well, someone found...”  She trailed off, looking nervously to the side, as if fearing pursuit.

“Phila.”   _ So that was her name _ .  “Why don’t you take a moment to catch your breath?”  Emmeryn seemed slightly amused, despite Phila’s attitude.  “Perhaps we could discuss this in my tent.” 

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Emmeryn smiled at Panne one more before turning back and leading the tired guard into her tent.  

Left alone with the guards, Panne nodded to them cordially before walking away herself.  Though she stopped as she picked up the soft timbre of Emmeryn’s voice. 

“One of the Grimleal?  Did you find any others?”

“No,” Phila’s stiff voice cut in.  “Just one man, with the mark on him.  We’ve got people looking, though.”

“And… the body?”  

“We took care of it, Your Grace.”

“You need not spare me the details, Phila.  Though you could spare me the formality, dear.”

For a moment, Panne considered turning around and walking back to Emmeryn’s tent.  But the people around her were already sending suspicious looks her way. If Emmeryn and Phila chose to keep this information a secret, she supposed no good would come of causing a scene.  On one hand, she knew that their enemies hardly ever sought them out alone: one dead Plegian meant several others would be looking for their fallen ally. Yet she also knew how quickly something like this could cause a panic.  

Panne chose to walk away as Phila began describing the details of the man’s death--something about stab wounds and a scrap with one of the sentries.  If he was supposed to be a spy, clearly Plegia had chosen the wrong person for the job. 

Though she started off toward her tent, her conscience wouldn't quite allow her to stay that course.  If one Plegian wormed his way past their defenses, surely he would not be the last. Perhaps this was not even the first.  If it took something of a fight to subdue this man, surely their defenses would need to be strengthened. And yet, the Shepherds were worn thin.  They required both a sufficient number of warriors to march in the day, and enough people left to stand watch at night. If too many were assigned to the latter, they'd be ill-prepared to face the dangers of marching.  It was a delicate balance. Panne was glad it was in someone else's hands. 

But, as she thought it over, it occurred to her that she alone might be able to help that certain someone. 

She had not known Fyra very long at all, but with a disturbance like this, Panne was almost certain she'd be awake.  If not, then perhaps she'd overestimated her worth as a commander. But the woman's weary face came to mind. Fyra was young--younger than Panne, anyway--and yet, not once had Panne seen her without dark bags under her eyes.  

A few days earlier, in Naga's temple, she'd heard Fyra wake with quite a start.  Her heartbeat loud and frantic, it seemed like she'd feared for her life. Panne wasn't the only one with nightmares, apparently.  But Fyra had also mentioned meticulously preparing for every scenario she could think of… so perhaps their tactician's insomnia was a product of preparedness and night terrors both.  She had to wonder if Fyra slept at all.

As she picked her way silently through the maze of tents, she noticed Chrom’s was dark, as were most of them.  News hadn't spread--she would certainly have heard if that were the case. The Shepherds were resting for the few hours they could.  As Panne should have been. 

But the night had its charms.  It was pleasant now, with the moon out… basking in her faint light, unhindered by a canopy of leaves.  She was used to the sounds of a forest, but the current terrain was flatter, with more rocks and fewer creatures.  Still, there was less human chatter. The scarce sounds of the night suited Panne far better. 

Breathing in the cool night air, thankful for her thick fur, her peaceful surroundings helped to calm her as she approached Fyra's tent.  As she thought, a faint light shone through the gaps. She could even hear a rhythmic tapping from within.

"Are you here, Fyra?" she asked quietly, stopping just before the entrance.  Just as she thought she might have been too quiet for human ears, she heard a commotion from inside.  

"Panne?”  

She wondered how long it would be before she grew used to hearing her name aloud.  

A disheveled Fyra poked her head out between the tent flaps, lantern in hand.  She smiled slightly when she caught sight of Panne.

“Come in!"  As always, despite the hour, Fyra sounded eager.  Panne wished she could feel the same, but for now, prickling unease raised the hairs on her arms and the fur on her neck.  Fyra’s false smile, she found, was far from reassuring.

"I hope I am not interrupting," she said, though she had a feeling the concerns at present were exactly what Fyra had been in the middle of.

"Nope," Fyra said, still smiling, though she closed the thick book in her hand with an unpleasantly loud  _ crack _ as they walked into the small space.  Panne tried her best not to flinch. She couldn't quite catch its contents, though it looked something like a magic tome.  "Did you need something?" she asked, putting the small lantern back on the ground.

By the look of things, Fyra hadn't laid out her bedroll yet.  She'd been using her pack as a makeshift chair, with the small lantern beside her.  It cast eerie shadows on the tent walls now: one flickering creature for each of them.

"No."  Technically, no, she didn't  _ need _ anything.  She was here to offer something.  Fyra just cocked her head to the side, though.  She supposed that was as good an invitation as any to explain her purpose.  "I heard one of our sentries discovered a Plegian. The ease with which one of them could breach our defenses is… worrying.  I thought perhaps I could help."

"Wait, what?"  She began to continue, but Fyra cut in before she could so much as take a breath.  "How'd you know about that?” Fyra asked, her voice hushed now as she took a step closer, enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet Panne’s eyes.  “Did word spread through camp that quickly?" Her heartbeat was louder now, and faster. 

Panne shook her head with a sigh.  She could not well blame Fyra for jumping to conclusions, but had she let Panne talk for just a moment longer, she’d have had no reason to worry.  "I overheard Emmeryn discussing it as I left her tent. I told no one else, of course." At that, she saw some of the tension ease in Fyra’s shoulders, though her heart wasn’t quite back to its slower pace.  Panne resisted the urge to sigh again; it wasn't as if she had anyone but Fyra to truly talk to, anyway. Surely she had no reason to suspect Panne of spreading such information. "I understand the need for our people to be calm, Fyra.  But if this threat is beyond the ability of human guards… a taguel's senses may be exactly what we require to combat it."

"Oh.”  Fyra stepped back, smiling sheepishly.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to blame you for anything.  I’m sure everyone will know by morning. Anyway,” she continued, with another tight smile, “I don’t suppose you can… see in the dark?"

"Yes.  Better than a human, at any rate," Panne corrected with a shrug.  “And, more importantly, I will hear any threat well before I see it.”

“So… you think you could use your skills best with a night post?” Fyra asked, apparently to Panne, but before she’d finished the question, she had already turned and begun pacing around the tent.  “Then again… we aren’t marching for much longer. I’ve already drawn up the formations going forward, and… Emmeryn’s got a lot of guards at night, less so in the daytime, so…”

Fyra cut a small figure, hunched below the short ceiling, tapping subconsciously on the book in her hands.  After walking a few circles around her pack, she finally sat down on it with a sigh. If this was how she usually made decisions, Panne supposed it was no wonder the woman never slept.

 

“If you intend to change my assignment, you should know that I work better alone,” Panne said as she sat down across from Fyra.  The floor was cool, even through her clothes--surely Fyra was cold without any fur. “The sound of allies would do little but distract me.  One taguel on watch is surely the equal of several humans, anyway.” It was not boasting, but a simple fact. She had seen how some of the humans balked at the way she fought in Ylisstol.  Man-spawn would only ever burden her on the battlefield, and she imagined it would be much the same while keeping watch.

 

“Hmm?  Keeping watch by yourself?”  Fyra finally looked up at Panne, seemingly worried, though Panne wasn’t sure why.  “I don’t think that would work with a group this size. We have to have people across the whole perimeter.  And if something happened, you’d have to face it alone. I don’t want that, either.” Something about the way Fyra said it stopped Panne from arguing that she’d be hard-pressed to find a threat she  _ couldn’t  _ face alone.  How else would she have survived this long?  She had a point about the size of the group, though.  Hearing an intruder across camp was unlikely at best. She was accustomed only to keeping watch for herself.

“Leave me on one of the flanks, then,” she offered as compromise.  “Would the enemy not flock to the place they think is unguarded?” It seemed a safe bet, regardless of her unfamiliarity with human tactics.  

"That  _ would  _ make sense.  But I think something else is going on here," Fyra ventured. "It's the strangest thing.  It looked like he was leaving camp, rather than going toward it. But if he'd come close enough in the first place, surely he'd have been found already."  She shook her head, pursing her lips in contemplation. "I guess the sentries could just be tired."

“Tired or not, it is their duty to keep watch, and they failed,” Panne reminded her, perhaps a bit too sternly.  “If he was leaving our camp, it means there was a breach before the fact. Should that not worry you more?”

“I  _ know _ what it means.”  Fyra’s voice cut in quickly, with a hard edge to it that she’d never heard before.  Something like guilt crossed her face as she looked away from Panne. “ _ If _ that’s what happened, anyway,” she added, more quietly.  “But this is Emmeryn’s honor guard--and the Shepherds. Trusted Ylisseans who would give their lives for the exalt.  The only people who haven’t been serving her for years…”

“The kindly priests guiding our way,” Panne scoffed.  “ _ Surely _ they can do no ill.”  She could see those cowards betraying Emmeryn in a heartbeat.

Fyra turned back to her, amusement in her eyes, apparently shocked that she was capable of sarcasm.  “Yeah, I suppose we know better than that, don’t we? But…” Fyra frowned again. “The hierarch in particular has served the exalt for years.  I’m not sure what he could gain by doing this.”

They sat in silence, Panne tracing patterns in the dirt with her bare feet.  She had been the target of human depravity more times than she could count or even recall.  Their reasons usually eluded her; what help could she be now? But more than once, even as she bled from some coward’s blade, those same man-spawn would look at her with fear above all else.  Even those who were kind at first often balked at her true nature. 

“Perhaps it is not about what he could gain,” Panne began slowly, “but rather, what he stands to lose.”  The Shepherds may have been prepared to give their lives for Emmeryn, but she had significant doubts about the hierarch.  For all her inexperience in human matters, she knew a craven when she saw one, man-spawn or otherwise.

“King Gangrel had no problem threatening Maribelle,” Fyra remarked with a nod.  “I have no trouble believing they’d do the same to an old priest. But where Maribelle staunchly defended Ylisse…”

“Mm.”  Panne knew where Fyra was going, and she quite agreed with the sentiment.  “I think it may be wise to watch him closely.”

“I think you’re right,” Fyra said as their eyes met.  “Maybe I’ll talk to Chrom about it in the morning.”

“Wait,” Panne began, her own heartbeat starting to quicken.  “Maybe…” She studied closely the ground beneath her, parsing her frantic thoughts for something intelligible.  "I would rather not be the cause of any… undue consequences." She looked back at Fyra, hoping she understood. "If he is innocent, for all his unpleasantness, I've no wish to make him suffer."

She was not one to shy away from the truth.  Yet, even as she wished to tell it, she found she could not.   _ If I am wrong, and these other man-spawn think that I turned Fyra against their ally _ … The truth would not stop them from acting on their own suspicions.  She knew this far too well. Even if she was correct, they could still turn against her for it.  Perhaps she was mistaken in speaking to Fyra like this at all--

It was all Panne could do to keep from jumping as Fyra put a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"Don't worry.  I have no intention of mentioning you.  Not that I think Chrom would mind, but… I understand," Fyra assured her, and against her better judgment, Panne believed her.  Maybe because, for the second time today, her skin was prickling like so many little sparks at the gentle touch of another. She was glad that Fyra couldn’t see as well in the dimness, couldn’t see how tense the contact made Panne.  As much as she craved this, as much as her body ached to learn forward, to rest her hand on Fyra’s, she could be nothing but frozen at that moment. She had learned to fear the same thing she craved. Seldom had she found better teachers than cuts, and bruises, and scars.

"And, anyway,  _ you _ won’t be the cause of anything,” Fyra continued, snapping her out of her thoughts.  “You just helped me… reach a certain conclusion. Even if we’re wrong, a little extra caution won’t hurt anyone.”  She drew back her hand, bringing it to rest on top of her tome, much to Panne's dismay. The spot she had touched felt so cold, now.  "I think for now, at least, you should stay with us in the daytime. If that's alright with you, I mean. I have a feeling we'll face trouble on the road whether or not we find the truth about the intruder."  

Panne listened well enough, but she took a moment to breathe deeply before speaking again, to loosen up her muscles, to sit more like someone resting than about to pounce at the slightest provocation.  She'd be feeling the phantom of Fyra's hand for awhile yet, she thought. 

"You are the tactician, not me.  If you think that is best, so be it."  She gave Fyra a nod to emphasize her point--her vision wouldn't make much difference marching in the day, but her hearing surely would.  If that was when Emmeryn was most at risk, it suited her just fine. It would have been odd to sleep in the daytime, anyway. She had done so in the past, usually for safety's sake, and never liked it then, either.  Trying to sleep when more of the Shepherds were awake sounded like an impossibility. 

"Good," Fyra said with a yawn.  "Then we can both get some sleep before we march."

"Right," she answered as she stood up.  That was her cue to leave, or so she gathered.  Sometimes it was difficult to tell. “Thank you for listening.”

“Oh, uh.  It’s no problem.  I’ll tell you if anything changes.”  Fyra seemed a bit surprised at her suddenness, but after she yawned again, Panne was sure she made the right call.  “Good night, Panne.” Fyra’s quiet voice trailed after her as she turned to leave, the soft syllable of her name lingering in the cool air between them.  

She smiled to herself, ever so slightly, grateful that Fyra couldn’t see.  

“Good night, Fyra.”

The tactician's name felt comfortable on her tongue, an easy venture for a voice out of practice.

Panne walked back to her tent at a leisurely pace, her mind preoccupied with how her name sounded in Fyra’s voice, how gentle that hand on her shoulder had been.  She knew not what friendship looked like amongst humans, but surely this was something like it. She’d have seen Fyra as a friend by taguel standards. For now, though, she would keep such things to herself.  Friendship could not be one-sided, and if Fyra’s attention waned… it was best to measure her expectations, and simply enjoy her time with the Shepherds in the moment. There was no sense in worrying herself over it.

Her tent was as she’d left it, thankfully.  All her belongings seemed to be intact as she rummaged through her pack and took out her worn blanket.  She laid out her bedroll and rolled the blanket under her head, tracing her fingers along the embroidery at its edges.  She could just feel its familiar shape: flowers along the edges, and at one corner, a transformed taguel. Perhaps it was time to go over it again.  She resolved to ask Fyra where she might find decent thread once Emmeryn was safely escorted to the palace. Though, judging by some of the other Shepherds’ clothing, perhaps they’d know better...

As she tossed and turned, she wondered what sort of tapestry she’d make for Fyra.  But no, she chided herself, it was far too soon for that. She undid her braids absentmindedly, letting her long hair loose around her ears.

Her mother’s face was hazy now.  All she knew for sure was that the markings on her face were the same.  Her brother’s image was more elusive still. Ninon’s bright smile, gone from her mind--he’d still been growing then, changing so often.  Would he still wear his hair in braids, if he lived now? 

The names of those she’d lost clouded her mind.  The guilt set in when she couldn’t think of them all.  There were too many faces, names, people, lives for one woman alone to recall.  And each day, they slipped further from her grasp. Like fabric, unraveling to nothing as time marched on.  

She could not see the moon, but she prayed to her regardless for a night of dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I choked on my own water earlier because i looked back at the description for this fic and saw "weekly updates" and let me just say. SORRY FOR DECEIVING YOU
> 
> this fic is alive and well. i also made a whole panne cosplay in between last update and this one. it do be like that sometimes.
> 
> A big part of this chapter was me being sad that Emmeryn and Panne didn't get to talk--to /really/ talk--in canon. You could tell that Emmeryn really had an impact on Panne, and I wanted to show that here. I also wanted to try and foreshadow things with the hierarch (not that he was particularly lovely last chapter either), but his actions in the game always struck me as sudden and contrived. 
> 
> Anyway, the plot thickens! We're coming up on Chapter 7 from the game. Cordelia! 
> 
> Seriously though, can't thank you enough for sticking with it this far. The fact that people read this at all brings me such joy :) See you next chapter! <3


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